


A Lover of Theatre

by thewestmeadow



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family, Food, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Immigration & Emigration, Panic Attacks, Religion, Slow Burn, Theatre, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-11-15 20:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18080426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewestmeadow/pseuds/thewestmeadow
Summary: Luca Changretta lives up to his cover as a "lover of the theatre" in England.The writer of his new favorite play is an intriguing woman from America, to whom he feels a special kinship. As Luca's new muse struggles to make a life for herself as an artist, Luca takes her under his wing. His powerful and passionate influence on her life may not be all benevolent, as she finds herself wrapped up in the private life of her complicated benefactor.





	1. Au théâtre

Luca arrived to the theatre in the back of a spotless black car after night had already fallen. The yellow street lamps flowed past the windows, periodically illuminating the side of his half-seen face as the car rolled up to the theatre, striking a black shadow across his face as he donned his fine felt hat. 

There was a mist of rain in the air as Luca mounted the theatre steps, alone, past the gathered couples and groups who stood here and there on the stairs before the play began. He kept his head lowered, making a figure kin to a dark vulture wrapped in his thoughts in the thin fog. 

English voices filled the red-carpeted lobby, with one or two other languages wavering through the air as Luca passed. He cut through the crowd deftly, turning one or two heads, perhaps due to his height, or his impeccable dark suit and indigo silk tie, or the darkness lurking about his eyes that was like a wide lake shore in the deep shadows of night. 

The lights in the lobby flickered, and the crowd excitedly began to clamor into the theatre. Ushers in white shirts with small lights in their hands greeted the ladies and gentlemen with dignified smiles, taking a look at each ticket and showing them the way with an ease and seriousness that suggested a kinship to the theatre itself. 

As the usher took his ticket, he looked Luca up and down, immediately assessing him as a man of importance, or at least wealth, and took him to the very front row with no fuss. Luca sat in the exact center of the row, where the leveled stage opened down into the orchestra, containing a dozen musicians at ease, the conductor in his coattails smoking a final cigarette before the show. 

Luca removed his hat and placed it in his lap, gazing at the red curtains. Someone was approaching from his right, hand already outstretched to greet him. Luca gave his distant smile and shook the man’s hand as he came up. Luca knew the man as the director of the play, a staple at this theatre whose work he had come to admire since arriving in England. 

“Mr. Changretta, thank you for coming.”

“Pleasure.”

“Working with a new writer on this one. Been a blast. I’ll introduce you after the show. A wonderful new talent in the lead role, too. Think you’ll enjoy this one.”

Without waiting for a response, the director took the seat beside him, leaning in confidentially. Luca indulged him by moving a fraction of an inch towards him, still looking at the stage. 

“To be honest, this is beyond the scope of anything we’ve ever done here at the theatre. I don’t think these people know what they’re in for.”

“How so?”

“Just look at the orchestra. Ever seen an ensemble that small for a play here? That’s my only hint. I won’t say any more.”

The man smiled broadly and stood up. He gave a little ironic bow to Luca.

“Enjoy the show, Mr. Changretta.”

Luca tipped his head in return, smiling that same distant smile. His eyes moved over the stage once more. The conductor was on his feet, having a brief last word with his musicians. The lights began to dim, and a hush fell over the theatre. Luca turned his full attention to the stage, where it would remain until the lights came up again. Until then, he was in a different world, carried away by the music and the words, the living bodies on stage channeling something vital and raw. 

The lead was a young North African immigrant, whose blue eyes haunted the stage, an English accent cut through with remnants of his mother tongue. And he acted alone for the full two hours. The story followed his journey across the seas to England, losing one after another unseen companion along the way, while the voices of violins and cellos matched his departures, arrivals, losses, miracles. Voices came to him from offstage, but no other human beings appeared on his long and lonely journey. 

Luca was staring rapt at the stage as the play came to its end. He had hardly moved at all. He was unaware of anyone sitting beside him, or anyone else in the theatre at all. The orchestra had ceased to play and the actor commanded the theatre with his last words. Then the stage lights went out, and the house lights came up. 

The audience, unsure of what it had just seen, did not applaud at first, and only when Luca started clapping did they follow suite. The lead actor and the myriad of voice actors from offstage came forward for their bows, and Luca stood up, but did not look around to see if others were doing so. Finally the curtains closed, and a loud murmur came up from the patrons leaving the theatre. 

Luca sat down again and remained in his seat for a long time, stunned by what he had just seen. There were voices behind the curtain, and the director peeked out and pointed at him. He motioned for Luca to come backstage. Luca placed his hat back on his head and mounted the stage, parting the heavy curtains with one hand and stepping into the busy half-darkness beyond. 

The director stood waiting for him with the lead actor at his side along with a young woman in such fine attire that he had to stop himself from examining her in greater detail right there in front of everyone. She wore a fawn colored turtleneck beneath a fine blue linen coat that stopped just at the tops of her brown lace-up leather boots, and, unusual for a woman, pressed black pants. Her dark hair fell down her front, and she looked very disgruntled in that moment. She barely looked up at Luca until the director brought him over. In fact, the three of them all looked quite nauseous. 

“Mr. Changretta, please meet our writer, Ms. Nola Gray.”

Only then did she look up at him and smile politely. He could see an intense light in her almost black eyes, though on the surface they were still as water.

“Ms. Gray,” Luca began, “I don’t think I’ve ever been so moved by a play in my life.”

She froze, looking quite shocked, and her eyes brightened. 

“Well thank you,” she said, her accent making Luca’s ears perk up. 

“American?” he said, looking pleased and surprised. 

“Yes. New Orleans.”

“New York,” he said, touching a hand to his chest.

“I might have guessed,” she said, eyes twinkling.

Luca then extended his hand to the actor. 

“Thank you for that,” he said. “As I said, I was very moved. Luca Changretta.”

“Malek,” he returned, smiling graciously. “I think you’ve lifted our spirits quite a bit.”

“Why is that?”

“You were the only one standing at the end.”

Luca looked at the three of them in disbelief. 

“I think it was a little heavy for this crowd,” the young lady said. 

“I dread tomorrow’s reviews,” the director said, visibly stressed. His demeanor was a far cry from how confident and put together he had seemed before the show. 

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing. That was a masterpiece. I don’t say these things lightly.”

The young woman’s face brightened again, and she smiled to herself.

“Thank you for saying so.”

The director was suddenly called away, bidding farewell to Luca with a hand on his shoulder. Luca turned back to the writer and actor before him. 

“I want to invite you both to dinner. If you’ll grant me the honor.”

The two exchanged glances, like children being offered a rare treat.

“Thank you, Mr. Changretta, but—” she began.

“Please. To thank you for your contribution to this theatre.”

She then clammed up, awkward and uncertain, before Malek interjected. 

“We would be honored. After tomorrow’s show, perhaps?”

“I’ll pick you up here at the theatre.”

With that he tipped his hat and brushed away past the curtains.

Nola and Malek gave each other wide-eyed looks before bursting into nervous laughter. 

“He’s interesting,” Nola said. 

“He liked your play,” Malek said, shaking her lightly. 

She surpassed a grin, trying to get her breath back. “I guess he really did. But who the fuck is he?”

“Who knows,” Malek laughed. “But we’re having dinner with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Peaky Blinders fic, first fic of any kind in a long time. Enjoying the heck out of it so far. Thanks :)


	2. Au restaurant

Luca stood in front of the mirror adjusting his tie in the golden evening light. Over his pressed white shirt, he wore a dark gray vest with a maroon tie. From the other room came the sounds of his men finishing their dinner, and Puccini playing softly on the gramophone. He pulled on his well-fitted suit jacket and left the room with his hat and coat in hand. 

Frederico and Matteo sat by the window in the dinette, sipping red wine. They quipped back and forth in Italian, glancing up at Luca as he entered the room. 

“Luca, this wine...” Matteo began imploringly, hooking an arm over the back of his chair. 

“You want to complain to me as soon as I walk in the room? After I buy your dinner?”

“He complains yet he still drinks it,” Frederico came back. 

“I’ll bring a bottle from the restaurant. After the play.”

“What’s this play about?” Matteo asked, swirling the disagreeable wine.

Luca took the bottle and poured a glass for himself.

“It’s about a young man in a foreign country. He never once complains about the food, and he’s Muslim so he can’t even enjoy their sub-par wine.”

He tipped the glass back, weighed it in his hand, and without changing his expression walked to the sink and poured the wine down the drain. He put one hand on the counter and dived into his jacket with the other. 

“On the inside, though, you can be sure he misses his mother’s cooking.”

Placing a match between his teeth, he looked thoughtfully at the two men without really seeing them.

“Let’s go already,” he said.

* * *

 

Nola stood backstage before the play, peering out from the wings into the audience. A few people were already in their seats. They had obviously not read the reviews of last night’s premiere. She had gone out for a paper that morning at first light, having spent a long and lonely night imagining every possible review. The one she read in the paper while walking back to her apartment in the cold morning air had hollowed out her head, her heart, and her stomach. She was still empty by the time the show was to begin that night.

She and the director seemed to have taken a vow of silence, stealing frightful glances at each other as more people began to crowd into the theatre. Only Malek seemed unperturbed. He stood by her, in costume, ready to perform.

“Remember, dinner tonight,” he said in her ear. She barely nodded. He put a hand on her shoulder. “You have at least one fan out there.”

She thanked him, and wished him luck, before stepping back into the shadows and taking her seat by the director in the wings. They sat stoically, maintaining their silence as the lights in the house flickered and the crowds began to arrive in earnest.

It was a full house. Nola scanned the seats before the lights went out completely. Down in front, sitting attentively with his hat in his lap, was Luca Changretta. His sleek profile and sorrowful eyes were fixed towards the stage, as if awaiting the first note of a symphony that he loved. Her heart lurched, the first thing she had felt all day, before the house lights went down and the stage lights came up.

For the first few moments, as Malek walked onto the stage to the opening notes of the orchestra, dragging a small white boat behind him, the crowd was hushed. Malek’s clothing was bloodied and torn, and as he collapsed and crawled across the stage, touching dry land for the first time, unseen voices called from offstage, recounting his journey across the sea.

Audible sighs began from the audience, murmurs arising in the darkness. Nola felt the tension in her body drawing her into one big knot. Beside her, the director bit his knuckles, staring with a dead expression past the curtains. Malek continued on, saying his travelers prayers beside his boat, changing his bloodied clothes into a fine white linen suit, and starting his journey in England. 

The audience, graciously, did not protest any louder than a murmur that night. Again, when the lights came up, she saw the tall figure of Luca Changretta at the helm of the theatre, giving a standing ovation while everyone else looked around to see if they had missed something. 

As Malek came back stage, she stood quickly and took his hand. He smiled and squeezed hers in return.

“I’m going to change, quickly- our friend is waiting. Go see him.”

The director was still curled in his seat. His pale eyes flashed up at her and he gave a quick nod, dismissing her; there could be nothing to say to each other now. They would have to suffer individually.

Her heart pounding again, Nola stepped offstage to greet Luca. As before, he held his hat in one hand, and inclined his head towards her.

“Ms. Gray. Congratulations, it was a wonderful show. I’m still amazed.”

“Thank you,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m afraid-“

She broke off, looking around at the diminishing crowd, wondering what they must think, baffled at the reaction from the past two nights.

“What are you afraid of?”

She looked back at Luca, startled. His dark eyes were steady as tall stones in the rain. She did not have a chance to answer, for Malek appeared beside her, and was shaking Luca’s hand.

“I have a car waiting outside,” Luca said. “Let’s celebrate.”

She could not protest. Managing a smile, she walked side by side with Luca out of the theatre while he chatted with Malek about the semantics of acting. 

In the back seat with Luca, her mind was still buzzing, and she watched the streets of Birmingham glide past the window as Malek carried most of the conversation. The Italian driver hadn’t said a word, but smoked two and a half cigarettes on the way, the smoke being sucked out the window into the fresh night. 

The restaurant was up a flight of stairs inside a tall, ornate building on the corner. Past a set of maroon doors, the host greeted them. He looked them up and down and said, “I’m sorry, but ladies are required to wear skirts or dresses in the restaurant.”

Luca looked at the ground while he dug in his pocket for a match. He bit down on the wooden end of it and turned his gaze on the host.

“Please don’t insult my guests like that,” he said.

“I’m sorry sir, but we have a dress code.”

Luca glanced at Nola, who was too emotionally exhausted to be embarrassed. He held out his hand; Nola was wearing a long camel hair coat over tweed pants and a sleek chocolate-colored sweater, with a black scarf around her neck. 

“I would be proud to wear the clothes this woman has on. Just because they’re hung on a woman’s body makes them unacceptable in your establishment?”

The host couldn’t find words to respond. He held up his hands apologetically, but would not budge.

“Get me someone of more importance than yourself,” Luca said, sliding the match to the corner of his mouth and setting his lips in an immovable line. 

When the maître d’ arrived, he quickly scanned the faces before him to determine what was at issue.

“What can I-“

“Since my guest has been insulted, I would expect her meal to be on the house tonight. However, since this evening is on me to start with, I’ll leave it to you to come up with a creative apology before we leave.” 

The maître d’ just stared at Luca, and, obviously crushed by this far more powerful force, led them to their seats almost robotically. Their coats were whisked away. He set the menus before them, then, along with the host, brought out a selection of wines, addressing only Luca until he suggested that the lady might like to choose the wine, at which point they pivoted towards her. She picked the wines while Malek trembled with laughter at her side. When the host and the maître d’ left, Luca cracked a smile, and the three of them burst into laughter. 

When Nola finally settled back into her seat, she let herself glance up at Luca. The hand that cupped his wine glass was tattooed, and she could see now in the absence of his pea coat that a black cross pulsed on his neck as he drank. He caught her staring, and, unfazed, met her gaze evenly.

“I’m very curious to hear what inspired you to write such a magnificent play.”

She fidgeted, running her finger alone the stem of her glass. 

“Well,” she began, “after I met Malek and heard his story, I started writing for the first time in a long time. Since I left New Orleans, in fact. I wanted to tell the story of an immigrant.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m so moved by this story, being an immigrant myself.”

“I’m glad to head that.”

“The way you tell the story is different from any genre of play I’ve ever seen. It felt almost like a dream.”

Nola shrugged and thanked him, unsure of how to respond.

“She’s breaking into a new genre,” Malek nudged. “In Europe, they’re calling it ‘symbolist theatre.’ There are more French and Russian symbolist playwrights than anyone. It’s fairly new in America and here in Britain.”

“Then I applaud you for bringing your work before a new audience.”

“They may not have been ready for it,” Nola murmured, draining her wine. Luca motioned for the waiter, who immediately brought more.

“You like this wine?” Luca asked.

“It’s very good,” Nola nodded. “In New Orleans we mostly drink French wine, obviously. The Italian is nice, though.”

Their food was brought soon after. Nola was secretly amazed at the spread that was set before them. It was fine food, the likes of which she rarely consumed these days. She enjoyed every bite, savoring it slowly. 

“So, Mr. Changretta, how did you come to be in Birmingham?” Malek asked. Nola lifted her eyes slightly to see Luca’s reaction. 

Smoothly, he said, “I’m here as a lover of theatre.”

Something about this statement struck Nola. She believed him, but his lack of further explanation said a lot. Neither she nor Malek pressed him further.

After they finished eating, their plates were cleared, and the maître d’ appeared once more. He had a bottle of wine and a small white dish in his hand.

“A complimentary bottle of our house red and pot de crème for the American lady.”

He set the ramekin before her. The rich chocolate mousse was topped with a dash of whipped creme. A small silver spoon lay on the saucer. He shortly returned with desserts for Malek and Luca. 

Luca raised his glass to her with a little smile.

“To the writer.”

Malek smiled and joined in the toast with his ice water. Their glasses clinked. The first spoonful of chocolate filled her with emotion. It was a taste of New Orleans, of that distant French ancestry. It made her feel rich. 

“This is my weakness,” she confessed seriously. 

Luca looked at her, amused. “Nothing compares to French desserts.”

“I think when you’re away from the food of home for too long, you start to forget yourself.”

Luca nodded, turning his silver spoon in his long fingers. 

“I wholeheartedly agree, Ms. Gray.” He then motioned to the waiter, who swiftly arrived. 

“I’ll take two bottles of the Italian red, to go.”

* * *

 

Luca sat alone in the back seat as Matteo drove back to the hotel. The engine hummed in the silence between them. 

“She’s very beautiful,” Matteo commented, hanging his cigarette out the window.

“Yes, she is.”

“What’s she do?”

“She’s a writer.”

“Good for her. Written anything I’ve heard of?”

“Do you read, Matteo?”

“No,” he admitted. 

They pulled up outside the hotel and Matteo cut the engine. Luca leaned forward with the bottle of wine.

“Something from home.”

Matteo took the bottle and regarded it appreciatively.

“Thanks, Boss.”

But Luca was already out of the car, his long black overcoat trailing behind him as he stepped onto the dark sidewalk and into the hotel. 


	3. Au marché

Every night that week, Luca slipped out of his hotel to go and see Nola’s play. He sat in the front row, mesmerized, as if seeing it again for the first time. He felt the poetry of the lead character’s monologues, as he spoke about fleeing his home country for what he thought would be a better life. After all, it seemed that life was the same everywhere. Luca paid no attention to the other patrons in the theatre, and felt every night as if he alone were witnessing this great work. 

The curtains would go down, and he might linger and say a word to Malek and Nola, or slip out of the theatre to ride back to the hotel, wrapped in his thoughts, while Matteo smoked silently with one hand on the wheel and the window cracked.

One night as he remained in his seat, too heavy with emotion to move, Nola peered at Luca from the wings and came out into the theatre. She surprised him by taking the seat next to him. That night, he noted, she wore cropped pale blue trousers and a soft black turtleneck. Her laced brown leather boots were scuffed and worn, but she carried herself unselfconsciously across the theatre floor.

She glanced at him in a wordless greeting, lacing her fingers in her lap as she gazed back at the stage.

“It’s unpopular,” she said simply. Her dark eyes showed no emotion. 

Luca searched her face. “According to whom?”

“The papers. The audience. I hear how restless they are when it’s quiet.” 

“People don’t often like the quiet.”

“You don’t mind it?”

“There’s nothing frightening in the silence.”

“I prefer the silence. Even when it is terrifying.”

Luca nodded slowly. “There is something terrifying about your play. It’s unfiltered. It’s like a perfectly clear dream.”

“That’s what I was trying to get across,” Nola said softly.

She still didn’t look at him, keeping her gaze fixed on the stage. Luca’s fingers twitched; he wanted to see her whole face. Instead he rotated his hat in his lap. 

“You can’t control how people are going to react to something. No matter how perfectly you articulate yourself, they only react to what’s already within them.”

Only then did she turn, her face revealed like the full moon. She just stared at him.

“You’re right.” She then shook her head and sighed. “Goddamn it. Then what do I do it for?”

Luca smiled slightly. “For people like me, maybe. Or for yourself. That’s the most important thing.”

She nodded, seeming distracted. She looked off in the distance, then stood up as if hearing a faraway call. 

“Thank you, Mr. Changretta.”

He gave a nod and watched her go. As she disappeared again behind the curtains, he put his hat atop his head and stood up, strolling slowly out of the empty theatre past the rows of red velvet-covered seats. 

* * *

 

Nola and Malek sat up late into the night talking, their feet propped up on the wooden chair backs and the cleaning crew glancing in at them with uneasy looks. Finally the lights cut out altogether and they were left talking quietly in the dark. 

“That Luca is something else,” Malek said after a while.

“What do you mean?”

“He invites us to dinner once and doesn’t follow up? I don’t get it.”

“I still dream about that dessert.”

“Do you dream about Luca?” he teased.

Nola gave him a sharp look. “No. What? Why?”

“I have never seen you willingly approach someone and strike up a conversation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The way you strolled up to him after the show. It was very comfortable-looking. The two of you sitting together. You rarely look so at ease.”

“What do I look like, then?”

Malek gave her a playful shove. “You look fine. He’s a very handsome man.”

“So? I don’t have time for men,” she murmured. “But why do you think he comes here every night?”

“Because he wants to see you.”

“Not because he likes the play?”

Malek laughed. “That’s part of the package. First he sees the play, then he sees the person who created it. They go together. That’s what he loves.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s quite obvious. You’re too wrapped up in your head to see it.”

Nola thought about it. Luca had flattered her by continuing to show support for her play, but she hadn’t considered him to be interested in her in any other way. Perhaps she was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice.

Lying in bed in her small apartment that night, she listened to the silence outside and imagined a desert sprawling all around her, velvet-blue in the moonlight, and in that desert one other person walked. Though they were miles away, she could feel their presence as if they were right beside her.

* * *

 

The next day was Sunday. The play wouldn’t show tonight, and Nola was up painfully early to attend her weekend gig at the market. Her eyes burned from a lack of sleep. She stiffly dressed in corduroy pants and a green wool sweater, stuffed her work gloves in her back pocket. A blunt knife for slicing through nets and string was sheathed at her side.

As dawn broke, the sky turned pale blue over the shadowy buildings of Birmingham. The market was already bustling with farmers and vendors setting out their goods. Nola unloaded crates from the truck with help from the young Spanish man who drove in from the docks. Most of the produce was imported from Spain, and Nola had been hired by an Englishman to sell the goods at market on Sundays. She barely made enough from the theatre to start with, and her second job at the market was vital at times like this. 

The young man drove off in the truck, and she was on her own for the rest of the morning. The sun was out in full, and customers began to fill the plaza where the vendors were set up, hawking fish and fresh bread, bolts of fabric, coffee beans, and all manner of imported and homegrown goods. 

She leaned in the shade with her arms folded, only coming forward to answer questions, weigh produce, and take money from outstretched hands. When the potatoes ran out, she went to restock them from the overflow of goods behind her. When she turned around again, there was a tall man in a downturned hat and dark suit picking through the tomatoes. Only when she saw a black tattoo on the man’s neck did she know for sure it was him. 

She froze, her first instinct being to hide, but there was nowhere to flee. He would just have to see her. 

When Luca looked up, he blinked, and for the first time Nola saw a genuine, surprised smile spread across his face.

“Well, well,” he said, amusement showing in his eyes.

She straightened with resolve, and put one hand on her hip. 

“Now the awful truth comes out,” she said wryly.

Luca was quite speechless. He held a tomato to his nose, inhaling, and smiled to himself. 

“It’s very strange,” he finally said. “I didn’t expect to find tomatoes this early. They wouldn’t be growing in England yet. But something told me to come anyway.”

His dark, clear eyes flickered up at her. He weighed a couple of tomatoes and set them aside, then moved on towards the onions and garlic. 

“I’m getting homesick,” he continued. “So I thought I’d cook tonight.”

He paused, twirling a bunch of basil in his fingers.

“What are you doing here?” he asked out of pure curiosity.

“Writing doesn’t pay the bills,” she said flatly.

“Ah.” Luca gestures towards his pile of produce, and Nola weighed and bagged it for him.

He watched her hands take each tomato, the onions, the garlic, placing them on the scale and into a bag. Her eyes showed great focus as she calculated his total and wrote up a receipt. He took the burlap satchel in one hand and reached into his coat for his wallet with the other. He gave her more than the bill, and wouldn’t accept any change. 

Then he looked her square in the eye and said, “Will you come over for dinner tonight?”

Nola was flustered, and didn’t have Malek there to answer for her. She tapped the toe of her boot against the concrete a few times before answering.

“Sure. Yes. I’d love to.”

She cursed herself for answering three different ways, and tried to regain composure. Luca held out a card between two fingers of his gloved hand.

“Here’s where you’re going. I’ll send Matteo to pick you up. Where do you live?”

She plucked the card from him carefully and glanced at it. She gave him brief directions to her apartment, feeling glad that he wouldn’t be seeing it with his own eyes.

He smiled and his eyes softened for an instant. She realized that they had never met in the daylight. 

“See you then.” He held up the little satchel of produce playfully, then turned on his heel and walked off into the crowd. He didn’t disappear; she followed his tall shape for a long time, and it seemed apart from all the other bodies filling that place. 

She looked back at the card in her hand. It showed the name of a hotel in fine black lettering on thick cream-white card stock. She pocketed it with her thoughts already drifting off. A small voice in the back of her mind suddenly awakened.

_Holy shit. Is he into me?_

Then she immediately started imagining what she was going to wear. 


	4. À l’hôtel

Nola smoothed the front of her dress, pacing the length of her room, and glanced at herself in the mirror as she passed. A long-sleeved dress of black silk draped down her body, a thin belt cinched around her waist. Her hair fell loose and wild down her front. It was a dress she had often worn in New Orleans, one that fit the mystic and sensual atmosphere of the city. In all her time in Birmingham, she had barely felt like wearing a dress; now it was as if she were returning home. 

A black car that she now recognized pulled up as she stepped out of her apartment in a long black peacoat, carrying only a bottle of wine wrapped in brown paper. Matteo immediately came around the side of the car to open the door for her. He gave a little bow and said “ _Signora._ ” 

The car hummed down the cobbled streets into a part of town to which she had never ventured. The old, esteemed-looking buildings rolled past, glowing in the last golden light of the day.

“How are you, _signora?”_

“I’m well. And you, Matteo?”

“Good, good. Luca says he saw you at the market. You know produce?”

“I’ve learned a lot from working there.”

“My family, they are farmers.”

“Really?”

“Yes!” He spoke animatedly, glancing at her in the rearview and waving his hand. “We grow the best tomatoes anywhere. You brush against the plants in the morning, you smell like tomatoes all day. It’s beautiful.” 

Nola laughed, and Matteo leaned back to offer her a cigarette. She declined and he lit up, cracking open the window.

“Luca tells me all about your play. You write about the immigrants. That’s very good. We are all immigrants, me and Luca and Frederico. No one hears our story.”

“You’ll have to come see the play, then.”

“Yes. Definitely. I’m no theatre lover. But I’ll see your play.” He turned and blew a stream of smoke out the window. “Luca talks all about you.”

“What brings you to Birmingham if you’re not here for the theatre?” she asked, avoiding his statement.

“Driving Luca,” he said, giving nothing away. Nola didn’t press him any further. 

When they pulled up to the hotel her heart lurched slightly. The flag of England billowed in the wind, and wide steps led up to the front entrance. 

Matteo came around again to open her door, cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. 

“Enjoy your evening, _signora._ ”

With that he zipped away to park the car. She was on her own now. The number 219 was written on the back of the card Luca had given her. She took a breath and mounted the steps. 

The long hallway on the second floor in which Nola found herself was painted creamy white, with gilded numbers on the doors and red carpet from one end to the other. Late afternoon light streamed through the windows. The bellman had shown her up and then left quite swiftly, she noticed. 

Taking a final deep breath, she raised a hand to knock on the door of room 219, cradling the bottle of wine in the crook of her arm. 

When the door swung open and Luca appeared there, her heart immediately started pounding again. He was in his shirtsleeves and a pinstriped black vest, sleeves rolled up to show even more tattoos on his lean arms: a rosary wrapped around the wrist and an ominous black hand. 

“Welcome,” he said with a smile, taking her arm and leaning in to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek. She felt the brush of his clean-shaven face, smelled his fragrant cologne in a rush. 

“Thank you, Mr. Changretta,” she uttered, catching her breath. 

“It’s my pleasure. Call me Luca now, eh, Nola?”

She nodded, eyes skimming the room which she had entered as Luca shut the door behind her. The last of the winter light faded through the windows on one side of the suite. A small dining table by the window had been set with a votive candle in a glass and a white tablecloth. Music played from a gramophone in the next room. 

“I’ll take your coat,” Luca said.

“Here. My small contribution,” she said, handing him the bottle of wine. Luca took it and slid the bottle out of its brown wrapping. He nodded appreciatively and set it on the counter. 

“ _Gratzie,_ ” he said as he came around to slip her coat off of her shoulders. His hands brushed the silk of her dress, not lingering.

“What a lovely dress,” he murmured, as he turned to hang her coat on the rack by the door. “You may have noticed I have an appreciation for fine clothing.”

“Among many other things, it seems. Food, wine, theatre…”

He laughed as he stepped into the kitchen. “There’s much to appreciate in this world.”

Nola couldn’t help but notice his high spirits. At the theatre, he often seemed solemn, even sorrowful, but now she saw a lightness in him that she hadn’t seen before. This strange man continued to unfold in new and complex ways. 

He uncorked the bottle of wine and filled two glasses which were already waiting on the counter. They let the wine breathe while Luca went to fill a silver pot halfway with water. 

“I miss my own cookware when I’m here,” he said, adding a pinch of salt to the water and igniting the gas stove. The blue flame licked the bottom of the pot as Luca set to chopping the tomatoes he had bought from her that morning. Nola watched his hands as he smoothly handled the knife, dicing first the tomatoes and then the onions, the garlic, and the basil. In another pan, he left the onions and garlic to simmer in olive oil, stirring with a wooden spoon. 

“Do you cook?” he asked over his shoulder. 

“Only for myself,” she answered. “Sometimes Malek.”

“I half expect Matteo and Frederico to break down the door when they smell this. They don’t enjoy the food here.” 

Luca moved deftly around the kitchen, obviously comfortable there. It was a recipe he had made countless times throughout his life, like second nature to him. Thus he conversed easily with Nola as he cooked, and she watched him with enjoyment. 

“We’re strangers in this city. You, me, Matteo, Frederico— and Malek, too?”

“Yes. His family comes from Egypt.”

“What do you make of this place?”

Nola paused, considering how she should answer. “Kind of a shit hole.”

Luca smirked. “I can’t disagree.”

She grinned, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t be so crude. But I don’t enjoy it here in the least.”

“You might if you get out of the city. The countryside is quite beautiful.”

Luca went over to the sink to wash his hands. He strained the pasta and prepared two white plates with spaghetti and homemade sauce, topped with loosely chopped basil. 

“ _Spaghetti alla marinara,”_ he said as he set the plates on table by the window.

The light outside had faded. Steam rose from the plates. She could hear melodies from a Puccini opera drifting from the gramophone. 

“I love this song,” she said, inclining her head to listen.

“Well well,” he said, giving her a nod. “You have good taste.”

“We have similar taste,” she admitted.

Luca raised his glass for a toast. Before they touched glasses, he said, “We’ve been formal with each other for quite some time, Nola. Why don’t we talk as friends— New Yorker to New Orleanian?”

She grinned and clinked her glass to his. “A’ight then,” she drawled breezily. 

“Atta girl,” he came back, and they drank. 

Nola took her first bite of the pasta Luca had prepared. It was perfectly _al dente_ , with a freshness from the tomatoes and basil that made her think of summer. This was a truly authentic Italian meal. 

“Well,” Nola said, letting her New Orleans accent thicken naturally, “If we’re gonna be friends, then how about you tell me what you’re doing in this city?” 

Luca had a delighted but somewhat dark twinkle in his eye as he peered over his glass at her. 

“I just got out of prison,” he said bluntly. 

Nola’s mind began to reel as she realized what it was that she couldn’t figure out before. The tattoos, the wealth, the charm… It all came together. She looked him over, at once impressed and scared, as one might be when confronted with a large, deadly feline. But she didn’t run. Instead, she stayed to observe.

“Is that right…” she remarked, sipping her wine. 

Luca spread his hands wide in front of him. “Now you know. I’m not as refined as I might seem.”

Her eyes skimmed over his neck, his hands, the symbols and numbers etched permanently on his skin. 

“The Japanese have an appreciation for the cracks and imperfections in beautiful things,” she mused. “Things that appear incomplete.”

The gramophone had switched over to _Nessun Dorma_. She felt the rush of the music, the alcohol, and the man in front of her sharing dinner. She didn’t ask what he had been in prison for. That was a mystery to be savored.

“What about you?” Luca said, touching his napkin to the side of his mouth. “Why are you really here?” 

“Apparently I have family in this area. My father lived here, but he met my mother in America. I want to know more about my ancestry.”

Then it was Luca’s turn to put two and two together. _Gray…_ He had almost predicted her next words before she even spoke.

“I know of a woman named Polly Gray who I’m related to by marriage, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with her.”

Luca didn’t miss a beat. He set down his glass and said, “It just so happens that I know Polly Gray. I could put you in touch.”

“Are you serious?”

“It seems that you and I are connected by more than just theatre,” Luca said with a sly smile. 

Nola had cleaned her plate. She sat back, swirling her wine in its glass, pensively gazing across the table at the tall man with his sleeves rolled up, his eyes glittering with amusement. 

“If you’re finished, I’ve made dessert.”

With that he stood. Nola downed the rest of her wine. The album on the gramophone had ended. There was only the muted sound of traffic outside, where the city lights were twinkling in the dark. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by the feeling of not knowing where she was or why she was there. It seemed so improbable to be there, in Birmingham, with an Italian-American man, searching for her family roots far from the place where she was born. 

Yet when Luca brought the dessert she actually gasped. He set two ramekins of _creme brûlée_ on the table.

“My god. I haven’t seen this anywhere in England. Hardly even in America. It’s a very old recipe.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” said Luca as he graciously poured her another glass of wine. 

And she did. She could taste the intonations of France, the ancient home of this rare dish. 

“What do you think?” Luca asked. 

“I feel like I’m home.” 

He plucked a toothpick out of his vest pocket and lightly bit the tip of it. 

“I want to put you in touch with Polly Gray. If that’s your purpose for being here. Everyone should know where they came from.” 

“How do you know her?”

“Through my mother. Our families knew each other long ago. Now it seems we’re connected once again.”

He propped his elbows on the table, rolling the toothpick in his mouth. “Tell you what. I’ll see what I can dig up on Polly Gray for you. Then we’ll meet again. Your choice next time.”

Nola nodded, considering. She couldn’t bear for this man to see her meager living quarters, or even attempt to cook for him after such a masterful meal. 

“I know a place,” she said, thinking of the café where she often went to write. 

“Tell me where, and I’ll be there.”

He tapped his toothpick on the table, seeming to momentarily lost in thought, then stood. She watched as he placed a record on the gramophone in the other room.

Violins drifted into the room. A woman’s operatic voice rose like the song of a bird. Luca sat down again, and the two of them were silent, transfixed by the music.

“What is this song about?” Nola asked.

“ _O mio babbino caro-_ ‘oh, my dear papa,’” Luca translated, his voice soft. “The woman is entreating her father to let her marry the man she loves. She wants to go to Florence to buy a wedding ring. But, she says, if her love is in vain, she will go to the Ponte Vecchio bridge instead and throw herself into the Arno River.”

“What happens to her?”

“Her father helps her to marry the young man. But he has stolen the money for her dowry and is condemned to hell for it.” 

The last sweet notes carried through the room. Luca’s dark eyes gazed out the window at the city lights, and Nola could see the glimmers of a sorrow she recognized in them. Her eyes traced the tattoos on his hands, which were folded beneath his strong chin. 

He seemed to come awake, but the sorrow remained in his eyes as he looked at her. 

“You don’t know what it means to me, having you join me for dinner. One gets lonely in a foreign land.”

“We’re from worlds apart,” she teased softly.

“An echo can still respond from miles away.”

A smile came over his lips, and the sadness was momentarily whisked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More food! What can I say- I love food, and it comes out in my writing.
> 
> I also want to say thank you, thank you, thank you to all those who have subscribed, left kudos and commented. Each and every one lifts my heart. Hope you enjoy.


	5. Au café

Luca sat by the window that morning looking over the gray city of Birmingham, a cup of espresso steaming on the table, untouched. Before him was a sheet of paper on which he had written the address of Shelby Company Limited on a piece of hotel stationary. He had not reached out to Polly as he told Nola he would. Polly wouldn’t have to know he was involved in the appearance of Nola Gray at her doorstep, in whatever fine attire she might be wearing that day, he mused. 

There was a light knock at the door. 

“Come in,” he called absently. 

Matteo unlocked the door with his personal key, followed by Frederico. The two dark-suited men stood there like shadows in his kitchen, which was drained of the golden light that had graced it on the night of his dinner with Nola.

Luca gestured to the espresso machine on the counter, and without a word the two men helped themselves to small porcelain cups.

Matteo seated himself across from Luca at the dinette while Frederico stood off to the side, staring out the window with his hat and espresso in hand.

“You have to tell me what you’re thinking, boss, else I don’t know what’s going on around here,” Matteo said bluntly in Italian. 

“What don’t you know?”

“Your lady friend. Nola Gray? She’s not just any Gray, huh?”

Luca inclined his head as if praising Matteo for his discovery. “Right. Not just any Gray.”

“She on your list now?”

Luca’s face darkened subtly. “You’ve seen how I treat the people I’m going to kill. After all this, you think Nola is on some list of mine?” 

Matteo held up his hands. “Like I said. I don’t know what you’re thinking.” 

Luca tipped back his espresso as his eyes passed over Matteo and Frederico. 

“When that woman is in your presence, you will protect her as if you were protecting me. Like I’m paying you to do.”

“Sure, sure,” Matteo said, nodding. “But how do you know whose side she’ll take in the end?”

Now Luca held up his hand imploringly. “How can you expect me to know, Matteo? I told you my thoughts. Just do as I say and make sure she doesn’t get caught in the crossfire.”

A silence overcame them, and rain began to fall outside the window as the three men sipped their espressos, each wrapped in their own thoughts. 

* * *

 

Nola waited for Luca’s call that morning as clouds rolled over Birmingham. Rain was imminent. She gazed out at the dark streets and felt her thoughts spiraling slowly downwards. Dinner with Luca had shined like a bright candle in her thoughts in the days since they met. But the candle flickered and nearly died each night as the theatre crowds diminished, and no positive reviews appeared in the paper.

The director was spiraling, too, and talked blatantly about shutting down the production. The Play was meant to run for a month; now it seemed that it might not last the week. The patrons of the theatre weren’t interested in funding an “avant-garde” play. They preferred the musicals and comedies that had always been popular in Birmingham. Which meant Nola would be out of a job. Her heart pounded and her head grew light at the thought of going to the theatre tonight to face that fate. 

She lay in bed with all of this running through her mind. Her restless thoughts conjured up images of Luca across the table from her at dinner, his eyes shining in the candlelight. Then came unbidden images of him behind prison bars, biding his time, waiting to be released into the world once more. 

The phone rang. She reached over the bed and picked up immediately.

“Hello?”

“Nola,” came Luca’s voice. “Let’s talk soon. About your aunt.”

“Yes. That sounds great.” She sat up quickly in bed. “There’s a café down the street from my apartment. Matteo will know it.”

“Good. Tomorrow morning?”

“Perfect. And Luca— thank you.”

“You got it.”

* * *

 

Luca wasn’t at the play that night, and Nola hadn’t expected him to be, but somehow it pained her to see his empty seat. She imagined him in his sharp black suit, seated upright in the red velvet chair. The familiar sight of him was her rock in a sea of debilitating anxiety and self-doubt. Now her hands shook and her breath rattled as she watched people filing into the theatre. 

The show went on as usual. Malek gave his usual heart-wrenching performance. There was a patter of applause at the end, then the audience scattered. Nola stayed in her chair with a hollow feeling. Not long after, the director approached her with a strange look in his eye. She already knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“I just talked to the owner of the theatre. They’re shutting us down.”

Nola hadn’t known how she was going to react until that moment. What happened was that she merely nodded and stared out at the seats. She heard the director saying other words, but she didn’t understand them. At a certain point he walked away. 

Then Malek came up to her in his street clothes, sympathy on his face. When she looked at him she started shaking her head.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. 

He reached out and took her hand. “No. Don’t be sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, and hung her head in darkness.

* * *

 

The next morning, Nola sat by the window in the café with her leg jittering, gazing out at the street with a cup of tea in her hand. She hadn’t even removed her black coat. Her intense, red-rimmed eyes peered out from waves of dark hair. 

Matteo cruised up to the front of the café in the car, letting Luca out onto the sidewalk. Luca buttoned his long coat and glanced around habitually as he strode towards the entrance. Nola watched all of this distantly. 

The bell on the door jingled as he stepped into the café. It was a small, cozy place that Nola frequented. There were pastries behind the glass counter, and the sound of the espresso maker put her at ease. This morning, however, everything put her on edge. 

Luca came up and put a hand on the back of the seat across from her. His glistening brown eyes looked down from beneath his black hat. 

“Good morning,” she greeted him weakly, glancing upwards. 

“Good morning.” He removed his hat and sat down while absently unbuttoning his coat. He spoke in a low voice. “Pardon me for asking. Is something wrong?”

Nola couldn’t stop it from coming. Her hands were shaking out of control, and the next breaths that emerged were halting shudders. She gripped the edge of the table and shook her head, not comprehending what he had asked. 

“Nola…”

She began shaking with silent sobs. Luca looked swiftly around the café and expertly pulled his chair around to block her from view. 

“Oh God…” she whimpered, wiping her eyes. Something in her soul had ruptured, and a stream of hollow tears came forth relentlessly. 

Then she felt his arm take her firmly around the shoulders. He was close, and his voice rumbled in his chest.

“It’s okay, dear. It’s okay.”

“Fuck it,” she sobbed. “It’s over. They cancelled my play.”

She could smell him, feel his warmth. He shielded her from onlookers as she shook in his encircling arms. 

“You fucking serious?” he asked, a note of danger in his voice. 

She just nodded, still heaving. 

Luca’s heart was breaking to see her like this. Someone passing by stared at her blatantly. Luca shot them a deadly glare. 

“Fuck off, eh? _Vaffanculo!_ ”

The onlooker hurried away. Luca lowered his voice, speaking once more to Nola.

“You want to go? Matteo’s right out front.”

She couldn’t speak. She only nodded. Luca grabbed his hat and lifted her out of her seat, throwing several coins on the table as they left. 

It had started to rain. Matteo was sitting in the front seat with a newspaper spread open. He jumped in surprise as Luca slid into the car with Nola. 

“Just drive, eh?”

“Back to the hotel?”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” Luca shot.

Matteo put on the gas, glancing nervously into the back seat. Nola was in full-blown panic mode, her hair and skin wet with rain and tears. 

“Fuck everything,” she gasped, slamming the side of her fist against the window. 

Luca gripped her arm. “Hey. I know exactly how you feel. Yes, fuck everything. It doesn’t fucking matter. This world is a shit hole.”

“ _Cosa sta succedendo?” What’s going on?_

_“Sta 'zitto!” Shut up!_

“Let me out. I need to get out.”

“ _Matteo! Ferma l’auto!” Pull over!_

Matteo whipped the car into an empty alley. Nola flung the door open, flying into the rain and collapsing against the brick wall. 

Luca came out after her. Her face and hair were soaked, her hands trembling. 

“I’m nothing. I’m nothing.”

Luca wrapped both arms tight around her and held her there. Her body shuddered in his grasp as she stood weeping into his shoulder. 

“No you’re not,” he murmured into her ear. “No you’re not.”

* * *

 

He took her back to his room. Both of them were dripping with rain. Nola stumbled inside and stood uncertainly in his kitchen. Luca stood behind her and peeled her coat off her shoulders.

“Take a seat on the sofa.”

“I’m soaked.”

“Forget about it.”

She did as he said. Her head was numb, her body worn out from sobbing. She heard Luca ignite a burner on the stove and fill the kettle from the sink. He then slipped into his bathroom and came out with two fresh white towels, handing one to her. His black hair was plastered to his wet face.

“I’m extremely embarrassed,” she murmured, staring off. 

“Matteo won’t gossip,” Luca said, turning to fetch the kettle. He brought her a cup of chamomile tea, setting it on the glass coffee table where it steamed. He sat in the chair adjacent to her with the towel around his neck. 

She ran her towel over her face and let out a long, shuddering breath. Finally she had the courage to look at him. His white shirt stuck to his skin, black pants clinging to his thighs. His throat gleamed, damp with rain. His dark, even eyes peered back at her.

It was only then that she realized how much older he seemed. There must be ten years between them, she thought, if not more. He was a man of the world, and had known from experience how to deal with her breakdown. A man her own age might have faltered and dropped her, whereas Luca had deftly carried her to safety, even relating to her nihilistic outburst of feeling. 

“Something you don’t know about me,” he began quietly, “is that my father died not long ago. He died here in Birmingham. That’s the real reason for my visit.” 

Nola looked at him, full of sympathy. An ironic pain filled his eyes.

“So yeah. Fuck everything.” He smirked humorlessly. “I think we both have a right to say that.” 

Nola watched the steam rising from her tea.

“How did he die?”

“He was murdered by a gang in this city.” He bit back the bitterness in his voice. “My time here has not been easy. But seeing your play brought me to another place. Like I was standing on a shore that could carry me far from here.” 

Nola nodded, listening to his voice. 

“I might be nothing,” he continued, “but you’re not. Your work shows that. There is a lot inside of you.”

They locked eyes once again. Nola felt tears returning to her eyes, but fought them back.

“Thank you,” she said in a brittle voice. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“So am I.” He looked out the window, his eyes narrowed sharply. “I’m putting you in touch with Polly Gray. You should be with family right now.”

“I don’t even know them.”

“I think you’ll find you’re a lot alike.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little difficult to write- panic attacks aren't easy. And everyone's motivations at this point are very ambiguous. This could go many different directions. 
> 
> Also- I don't speak Italian, so if anyone finds issue with my translations then please let me know! I welcome any feedback. Thank you all for reading.


	6. À la Garrison

Nola had left the hotel room an hour ago, but drops of rain still lingered on the floor, and the couch was damp where her hair had rested. Matteo drove her back to her apartment when she was ready. Luca now stood by the sink, slowly washing out her teacup, still in his wet clothes. He took a hot shower with the bathroom door open and soft piano music playing from the gramophone. Afterwards he shaved his face, slicked back his hair, and dressed in a fresh shirt and pants. 

He went into his office and collapsed into his desk chair with a heavy sigh. The afternoon had advanced, and rain still pattered outside the window. He could still feel Nola’s body trembling in his arms. He quietly opened the middle drawer of his desk, slipping out a handful of small photographs. In his tattooed hands, he held a photo of himself and his father, in Italy, thirty years before. 

The young Luca had a serene look on his face, with a shy sense of pride at standing next to his distinguished-looking father, a blonde Sicilian with solemn eyes. Those eyes contained a depth of emotion that had been unfathomable to the child at the time. Now, Luca could see more of himself in his deceased father than the in ten-year-old boy. 

He flipped to another photo, which showed the family all together; his mother and father, brother Angel, and Luca himself. They had gone to have their portrait taken that day, on a hot afternoon in New York, which had left Luca pulling at his collar. Yet as people stared with envy at the Changretta family strolling down the streets of New York, Luca was filled with such a sense of pride that he never forgot it. 

Luca set the photos down and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Nola was the first person outside the family he had talked to about his father’s death. And there was still Angel. One piece of him fell out at a time, it seemed, until he was sure there would be nothing left. 

Luca slid the photos back into the drawer. His family had dwindled to one: the mother he valued above all else. Audrey Changretta had given him his imperious looks, along with his cunning and sharp intelligence. Now he had sent Nola to find her own family, and wondered what traits the Grays had passed along to her. Among them, only Michael Gray was her blood relative, Luca knew, but blood wasn’t always the only thing to unite a family. 

He had invited Nola to stay there at the hotel until she recovered, but she wanted to be alone. He understood; she looked utterly drained. Before she left, Luca passed her the piece of stationary with the address of where to find Polly Gray. By giving Nola the Shelbys’ address, he had essentially placed his life in her hands. He would only have to wait and see how the winds turned. 

* * *

 

Polly Gray was alone in her office when the phone rang. She answered automatically, in the middle of lighting a cigarette with her other hand. 

“Yes?”

“Is this Polly Gray?”

She didn’t recognize the voice of the woman on the other end; any American accent these days made her stomach turn. 

“Who’s asking?”

“My name is Nola Gray. I believe I’m a relative of yours.”

Polly’s eyes narrowed. She dragged on her cigarette and leaned back against her desk. 

“You’re going to have to convince me.”

“Your husband made his life on the river and died there, right? My father died at sea. I’m told you predicted long ago that the Gray brothers would both die on the water.”

“David Gray lost at sea,” Polly murmured. “Is it really you, then? The daughter from America?”

“Yes. I came here to see you, and meet the rest of my family. There’s no one left for me in America.”

Polly’s heart was racing. She knew that she had a niece in America, yet even Tommy Shelby’s searching had not turned up anything about her. After a few correspondences, including an announcement of the birth of a baby girl, David Gray, her husband’s brother, had quite literally gone off the map after leaving Birmingham twenty-six years ago. 

Polly felt lightheaded as she had when Tommy came to her with news about her lost son and daughter— one who lived, and another who died in a foreign country. It felt almost as if a sliver of her daughter Anna had reappeared again in the form of this young woman’s disembodied voice. Yet the deeply suspicious part of her told her hold back, to be reserved.

“Then come see us,” Polly said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “Come and meet your family.”

* * *

 

Luca told her the Shelbys dressed well, but not as well as Nola. She stood in front of her mirror in a tweed suit and burgundy scarf, brown leather gloves and boots. Polly Gray had given her the same address that Luca had supplied: Shelby Company Limited, Watery Lane, Small Heath. She gave this address to the driver of the taxi she summoned, and set off that morning into the unknown. 

The streets of Small Heath were gray, gray, and gray. A fine layer of soot covered everything, settling in every crevice. The heavy smoke and noise of industry infiltrated the air, and the cobbled street looked like a short road to hell. Even the light struggled here.

Nola stepped out onto the sidewalk and glanced quickly around. She knew her way about the rougher parts of New Orleans, and was not intimidated by the stony looks she got from passers-by. An unmarked door stood before her, and only when she gazed at it did she feel the stirrings of fear. Nevertheless, she knocked.

She knew that the woman who answered was Polly Gray. With short dark hair, big brown eyes, and a grim but heartbreaking smile, she peered out. Polly wore black velvet over her white blouse, a blue silk ascot around her neck, and a tight black pencil skirt. Her lipstick was light, and her eyes heavily shadowed. 

“So,” she said, looking Nola over. “Is this our lost American daughter?”

Nola, fluttering inside, reached out a hand, and the two women shook. Polly’s grip was firm, and when her hand came up, Nola glimpsed a sidearm in the holster beneath her jacket.

“Thank you for inviting me here,” Nola said, quickly shifting her eyes away from the weapon.

“Don’t thank me yet. This is as much of a precaution as anything. And it’s not just me you’ll have to answer to.”

Polly led her into a parlor where a fire burned in the hearth. They sat at a small round table, where Polly immediately lit up a cigarette and cast her penetrating gaze upon Nola, who sat patiently under this woman’s scrutiny. She quietly sized Polly up. Not someone to be impatient with, or to try and deceive. Unless one was exceptionally skilled at deception. 

“Where did your father disappear to when he left Birmingham so long ago?”

“He settled in New Orleans, and met my mother there.” 

Polly poured them two cups of tea from the steaming kettle over the fire. She sat back, sipping periodically, as Nola recounted her family’s history in New Orleans, up to her father’s death at sea when he sailed back to fight for the British Army during the war. 

“So you crossed the sea to find us. Even after it took your father’s life.” Polly leaned forward, setting her cup on the table. “Let’s have a look at your palm.”

Nola held out her hand, used to such things after a life in the mystic quarters of New Orleans. Polly took the hand in her strong fingers, her eyes perusing the lines in Nola’s palm. 

“No, you’re not meant to die on the water.”

“How did it come about that you told my father how he would die?”

“My husband, too. Two of them sitting right across from me on a drunken night. My husband drunker than usual. That’s when I saw his end. But your father was different. He didn’t die of stupidity. He died of independence.”

Nola felt a chill go through her body. The hand that held the teacup trembled slightly. 

“Some of our people live on the land, some live on the river. But there are few Romany who take to a life on the ocean. Your father saw something out there that let him escape this place.” 

Nola bowed her head, fighting back sudden tears. The words struck her like sharp steel, true as they were. Polly’s sure hand lifted her chin, briskly wiping away the tears. 

“You Grays are a peculiar lot,” she murmured. “Always here and somewhere else.”

Nola set her empty teacup on the table, straightening herself. “What about you Shelbys?”

Polly’s sly smile came back. “Oh, you’ll get to know us plenty well. I can see that you’ll judge us for yourself.” She then reached out and took Nola’s teacup, turning it towards the light to see the soggy leaves.

“Who’s the man?” she asked. 

“What man?”

“The man in your tea leaves. You’ll want to hold onto this one. He’s rich. I quite like him.”

She leaned back in her armchair, her eyes catlike.

“Everyone is out today. Shame you can’t meet the others. And Tommy wants to interrogate you. But I’d like you to meet your cousin Michael most of all.”

Her last living relative, Nola thought. 

“I would love to,” she said. 

“Then you’ll have to come to the Garrison tonight. If they don’t kill you getting in, you’ll be golden. Only joking. No one would touch you with me around.”

* * *

 

Nola felt like royalty as she approached the Garrison that night at Polly Gray’s side. There was a golden glow in the Garrison windows, and the noise from inside could be heard all the way down the street. 

“You’re accustomed to violence and debauchery, yes?” Polly said as they strode down the sidewalk. “I’ve heard bloody tales from New Orleans.”

“You’ve heard right. I can hold my own.”

“‘Course you can. Always good to keep an eye out for flying glass, however.” 

At the ancient wooden bar, Polly ordered a vodka tonic and Nola a whiskey, earning a nod from the bartender. 

“In here,” Polly called over the din of voices, leading Nola into a private room. Inside, two men sat in a plush booth, one quite a few years younger than the other. The younger had smooth, almost luminous golden skin, with a pink flush to his cheeks. Yet his blue-gray eyes betrayed his cherubic face; something steely, distant, and cold lurked within them. The other man looked a thousand miles away— his eyes, unlike the other’s, glittered like ice, just as impersonal and deadly. 

Yet when they saw Polly, a warmth and ease came over the men by way of greeting. She took Nola’s arm endearingly, that melting smile spreading over her lips as she addressed the younger man.

“Michael. Come here. I want you to meet your cousin.”

Nola saw a spark jump in Michael’s eyes at Polly’s words. With a look of amazement, he stood, coming forward hesitantly. 

“This is Nola Gray.” 

Nola smiled warmly as she shook his hand. 

“I didn’t know I had a cousin,” Michael said awkwardly.

“Neither did I.”

“Where are you from?” he asked at hearing her accent.

“America. A city called New Orleans.”

“I think I’ve heard of it.” 

“And this is Tommy Shelby,” Polly said, taking Nola’s arm again. Tommy stood politely and shook her hand, but did not come out from around the table. He sat back down with his whiskey.

“Polly told me we had family in town,” Tommy said as they were all seated. Nola sipped her drink nervously, taking in this strange new group. She noticed Michael fidgeting, too, while Tommy focused on her with a sudden intensity.

“How d’you like Birmingham, Ms. Gray?”

“Does anyone like it?” she asked with a light laugh.

“Precisely,” Polly said, rolling her eyes. “It might be home, but it’s no prize.”

Tommy swirled his drink around in its glass. “Been mistreated by our cruel mistress, eh?”

“I’m in the wrong line of work to try and make a living here,” she admitted.

“What work is that?”

“I’m a writer” 

“Ah. I understand everything. Say no more.”

“What do you write?” Michael asked tentatively.

“I write plays.”

“I’m not a theatre-goer myself,” Tommy said, “Though I understand it’s meant to be good medicine for the soul.”

“I don’t know about medicine,” Nola countered, “It can feel like poison at times.”

“I’m sorry you’ve inherited the Gray curse,” he said with an ironic smile.

“What curse is that?”

“The curse of dissatisfaction with real life.” 

Polly hung her head darkly, and Michael turned up his drink. 

“Jesus, Tommy,” Polly hissed. 

But Nola merely grinned. “Not a bad curse, when you can make up other lives for yourself.” And she drank. 

“You are a writer, then,” Tommy said, seeming somewhat satisfied. “But we Shelbys have our own curse. It’s a curse that spreads, too.”

“What’s your curse?”

His piercing blue eyes looked nearly dead when they fixed on her. “We don’t believe in anything. Not only that, we _can’t_ believe in anything. Just impossible.”

“Speak for yourself,” scoffed Polly

Tommy just gave a stiff shrug and downed the rest of his whiskey. “Another drink?” he said, and without waiting he whisked away Nola’s glass and disappeared. 

“God,” Polly sighed. “I’d have spared you that.”

Nola just smiled and raised her glass. “Cheers. To family.”

Polly and Michael joined her in a toast, their glasses clinking.

“To family.”

* * *

 

When they were good and sobered up, Michael took Nola back to her apartment in the car. Polly had gone on with Tommy, squeezing her hand with a smile before she departed. 

“How’s Birmingham different from America?” Michael asked. He had warmed up to her over the course of the evening, and asked her endless questions about her life in America. 

Nola thought about it. “I don’t know about all of America. But in New Orleans things move slower. It’s hot, we live by the sea, and the atmosphere feels alive and ancient. People wander around like they’re listening to a whisper on the air. It’s similar to Birmingham in some ways; everyone speaks two or three languages, or they just combine them all into one.”

“What about New York? Have you ever been?”

“Never been. But I know people from there.”

“What are they like?”

“They’re fast. And proud. I don’t know many of them.”

Michael fell into silent thought. The dark buildings of Small Heath hummed past. 

“How old are you, Michael?”

“Twenty-one.”

“You want to go to New York someday?”

“I might have to.”

“Why?”

“For business.” 

He didn’t seem eager to elaborate, so Nola didn’t press him. They said their goodbyes outside her apartment, and she mounted the steps to her small flat alone. When she stepped up to the door, she noticed a slip of paper stuck into the door jamb. Unlocking the door, she caught the note and stepped inside with it. By now she could recognize Luca’s sharp, slanting script. 

 

_Dear Nola,_

_We fall apart at inopportune times, it seems, especially in strange, unfriendly lands. When you’ve met your family and you’re feeling well, I hope I’ll see you again. I’m eager to hear how things go._

_Dinner, a cappuccino- or perhaps you dance? Do let me know._

_-Luca_

 

Nola’s heart pounded when she read his words. She couldn’t figure this man out. Polly’s words rang in her mind: _Who’s the man?_

She didn’t rightly know. Not yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoys this chapter! The Shelbys finally come into the picture. Hope the family history doesn't bore. Thanks for reading!


	7. À la danse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little OC fluff, a confrontation with Tommy Shelby, and some sexually charged dancing. Enjoy!

Nola dressed that morning while nursing the pleasant sting of a slight hangover. Meeting Polly and Michael had done her a world of good. She felt refreshed and hopeful again knowing that she had a family in this faraway land. Sun filtered through the windows as she made tea in the kitchen of her small apartment. Just as she set the steaming cup down by her bed, ready to settle in with a good book, the phone rang.

“Hello?” she answered. 

It was Malek. She hadn’t seen him since their last night together at the theatre, and had been out of touch with him for almost a week. 

“How are you?” he implored. 

“Slightly hung over.”

“We need to catch up. Can I come over?” 

“Sure, come by. I’m here all day.”

After hanging up, she leaned back in bed, carefully cradling her mug of hot tea. She let her tired mind drift as she slowly sipped her tea and thought of Polly, Michael, Tommy, and Luca. They were connected to her by one thread, and that was the city of Birmingham.

An hour later, there was a knock at the door. Lazily, she called out for Malek to enter. He came inside wrapped in his coat and scarf, hair blown by the wind. He looked stressed. 

“Want some tea?” Nola asked.

“I’ll get it,” he said, throwing his coat and scarf across the back of her armchair. He poured himself a cup and collapsed in the wooden chair by her bed with a sigh. 

“What’s been going on with you?” he asked. 

“Well,” she began, “I had a nervous breakdown in public, met my family for the first time, and got drunk in a sketchy pub in Small Heath.”

“What nervous breakdown? Are you okay?”

“A panic attack. I’m fine.” 

“Were you alone?”

“Luca Changretta was there,” she murmured.

“Come again?”

“Luca Changretta,” she said louder.

Malek’s face slowly split into a grin. “Oh my God. Please. Set the scene.”

“It’s not as romantic as it sounds,” she said with a note of irony.

“I know. I’m sorry you had a panic attack,” he said, more serious. “And I’m glad someone was there. Especially him.”

“Oh, and I forgot the part where I went to his hotel for dinner.”

“What?” Malek cried. 

“It gets better,” she said, leaning in confidentially. “I think Luca’s a mobster.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I know, right?”

“I mean, Nola— did you really not fucking know that already?”

She blinked, suddenly quizzical. “No.”

“God help you,” he sighed.

“He told me he just got out of prison, and a gang in this city killed his father. This is the kind of guy you should stay the fuck away from, right? Then he helped me during my panic attack, and something told me I could trust him.”

“How did he help you?” Malek asked gently, leaning forward with his chin in his hand. 

“He took me out of sight immediately when I started breaking down. Matteo was outside, and he just told him to keep driving. I was really freaking out.” 

“About what?” 

“The theatre. Life. Everything.”

Malek nodded, understanding. “Well, tell me about the dinner. What did you wear?”

“Silk dress.”

“Did he run his hands all over it?”

“No…”

“That’s too bad.”

“I don’t think it’s like that.”

Malek looked at her skeptically. “You wish it was.”

Something inside her lurched inexplicably, and she chose not to comment. “So what’s going on with you? Why so urgent?”

Malek looked at her, his deep blue eyes gleaming and serious. “I wanted to talk to you about the theatre. I don’t think it’s just our production that was shut down. The whole theatre is going under.”

“God. Are you serious?”

“Yep. So that means no more work in Birmingham. We’d have to go to London.”

“No chance. We’re complete unknowns.”

“I know. There aren’t any good options. If the theatre goes under, we can’t even get jobs on other people’s productions.”

“Fuck.” Nola leaned forward and put her head in her hands.

“Might be time to find a new line of work.” 

She lifted her head. A shared look of hopelessness passed between them.

“You have one thing going for you that I don’t,” Malek said consolingly.

“What’s that?”

“You know exactly what. Or should I say, ‘who.’” His eyes glittered mischievously as he took a long, loud sip of tea. Nola threw a pillow at him.

* * *

 

The light over Birmingham was fading that evening as Nola tried on the dress she planned to go dancing in with Luca. There was a knock at the door. Distracted, she answered without asking who it was. She was shocked to see Tommy Shelby standing there in all his finery: cap, tailored coat, gold watch chain, and glittering blue eyes. 

“Evening,” he said in his low, even voice. “Sorry to interrupt. Going somewhere?”

She was barefoot in the thigh-length dress, hair loose and shoulders bare. 

“All dressed up with nowhere to go,” she admitted. “It’s new.” 

“I thought we could talk,” he said, pointedly waiting for her to invite him inside. She moved aside, putting forth her best manners; a visitor was the last thing she wanted this late in the day.

“Can I get you some tea?”

“No thank you. Can I sit?”

“Wherever you like.” 

He took the only chair in the apartment, while Nola leaned on the counter that divided her kitchen from the rest of the flat. She folded her arms over her chest.

“How do you know where I live?” she asked, her voice darkly amused.

“I’ve done my research. When someone shows up claiming to be your cousin, you look into it.”

“Sounds like you’ve been waiting on someone like me to show up.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong. And if you’re who I think you are, then our knowing each other will be very brief.” 

A deadly silence had spread into the dark corners of the apartment. Nola was both offended and highly alarmed. She itched with the uncomfortable thought that she didn’t have a weapon nearby, nor did she even know how to use one. 

“Who am I, then?”

“Good question, Ms. Gray. Who are you?” He slid a cigarette from a silver case and tapped it on his thigh. “May I smoke?” 

“May I?”

She held out a hand. Tommy leaned forward to pass her the cigarette. She grabbed a book of matches from over the stove and lit it while Tommy was left to himself. 

“I pick up on little things,” Tommy continued. “One of the few things I pride myself on. And I have a family who shares these things with me. Such as the rich man Polly saw in your tea leaves.”

Nola’s eyes narrowed and she gave a slight smile. “Thought you didn’t believe in anything.”

“Oh no. I don’t believe in the intangible. But Polly’s gift, that’s real and true. You’d never second guess a thing like that. But I’m purely curious, as a relative of yours, about this tall, rich man.” 

“She never said he was tall.”

“Not to you, since you already know him quite well. It’s those little things that she shares with me.”

The smoke from their cigarettes drifted on the air between them. Nola felt a chill over her whole body. This inquisition was making her sick, and she had already decided she wouldn’t share anything with this man who seemed to want to get something out of her. 

“I don’t have time for men,” she said simply. “If she saw a man, it’s a one-sided thing. There are lots of rich men around the theatre. Tall ones, too.” 

“All dressed up for yourself, then?” 

This inflamed her. She blew out a stream of smoke with a slight hiss. “Why can’t I be?”

Tommy just shrugged, a smug smile on his face, and dropped it. He ashed his cigarette into a tea cup on her coffee table. Then he stood up suddenly, pointing two fingers at her. 

“You’re either too naive for words, or you’re having a good fucking go at me. Either way, you’re not fucking safe. Not while you’re here.” 

Nola cut her eyes at him like the knives she wished she was holding. “Thanks for the warm welcome.”

“Not my job to welcome you, cousin.” He gave her a final accusatory look before letting himself out. After he had left, she stood in the silence, gripping the kitchen counter.

“That motherfucker,” she murmured. Then louder: “Who does that motherfucker think he is?”

It was in this state that she awaited Luca’s car. Nola was pacing, her dress twirling about her with every turn, hair bouncing on her shoulders. She had lined her eyes with kohl, and they gleamed with a deadly light.

A car horn summoned her from outside. She draped an embroidered shawl over her shoulders, looking a true New Orleans mystic. This time it was Federico who picked her up, and Luca was not in the car. 

“Luca got held up,” Federico explained as the car started down the street. “He’ll meet us there.”

The club where they were to meet him was classy, well-lit, with an easy pace to the music and a healthy amount of dancers. Nola immediately strode to the bar ordered a whiskey. As she looked around the wide room, she saw Federico sit down alone, absently sipping a drink with his eyes darting here and there. 

She felt a warm hand on her waist, and looked up suddenly. Luca stood smiling over her in a sharp black suit and tie, his shirt white and pristine, black shoes gleaming. Before she could prepare herself, he had leaned forward and kissed her briskly on the cheek. The warm touch of his skin thrilled her. He smelled of fresh _eau de parfum_ tinged with cedarwood. She smiled politely and greeted him.

“I apologize for being late,” he said, but didn’t explain himself. “Shall we get a table?” 

They sat together at the edge of the dance floor, talking animatedly over the noise of the music and chatter. Luca seemed to be in a light mood, but Nola noticed how his eyes wandered at times, seeking Matteo and Federico. He did this almost automatically, as a matter of course, and once he had determined their locations he was again at ease. 

She eventually broke the news to Luca about the theatre. He listened with grave attention, twirling the toothpick from his drink between his fingers. 

“There’s no funding. Not just my production, but the whole theatre is on the verge of shutting down. At least according to Malek.”

“What’s wrong with this town?” Luca lamented. 

“I don’t know, but I’m out of a job as soon as it goes under,” Nola said.

“That’s a damn shame.” He seemed to be turning something over in his mind as he placed the toothpick in his mouth. He looked over at Matteo and Federico once again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll refill our drinks. Why don’t you dance?”

Nola glanced at the floor. There was a light, energetic song playing. She smiled and stood. 

“I’ll come get you at the next song.”

They parted briefly. It felt good to dance amongst the others, smiling and anonymous. She thought how distracted Luca seemed that night, and wondered what had held him up from arriving sooner. 

But Luca wasn’t distracted when he returned to the table with their drinks. He watched her every move as she danced freely, eyes grazing over her bare legs, her lashing hair, the graceful shape she made upon the dance floor. He was completely motionless. It was as if he were back in the theatre watching Nola’s play all over again, enraptured by her creation. Only this time, he was watching the creator herself. 

Nola’s eyes drifted back to their table. Luca was gazing right at her, and the look of distant longing on his face pierced her. She suddenly felt hot all over, and her breath caught in her throat. 

Catching her breath, Nola went back to the table to join Luca. 

“You’re a great dancer.” There was a peculiar strain in his voice. 

“Thank you.”

The silence rang between them. They watched the rest of the couples finish the song, and the band switched to a slow but intense tune.

“Care to dance?” Luca said. 

Nola just nodded, unable to speak. Luca held out his hand, and she took it, walking with him onto the dance floor. His other hand slid to her waist, and he drew her close. The last time they had been this close, he was holding her tight enough to keep her from falling off the edge of the earth. They swayed together, moving regally across the floor, while other eyes watched them dreamily. 

As they pivoted slowly around, Nola’s eyes grazed along the few patrons at the bar, and there sat Tommy Shelby. 

Her heart leapt and she stumbled slightly over Luca’s feet. He looked down at her in concern. 

“What?”

She met his eyes, unsure of what to say, and he turned to follow her gaze. She saw a strange flicker in Luca’s eyes as he found Tommy. 

He squeezed her hand. “Go sit down.” He was looking around for Matteo, Federico, anyone. 

“What?”

“I mean it. Find Federico. Get out of here.” 

The other dancers had move around them as they stood frozen on the dance floor. Yet when Nola looked back at the bar, Tommy was gone. She glimpsed his back as he was leaving.

“He’s gone. Luca, that’s just my cousin. Don’t you know him? I don’t think he—“

Luca looked right at her, his eyes deadly serious. “We need to go.” He didn’t let go of her hand as they stepped off the dance floor, giving a loud, sharp whistle. Nola saw the heads of Matteo and Federico swivel in his direction.

They rushed straight to him, and Luca gave swift directions to Federico in Italian. Federico gently took Nola’s arm, but she wouldn’t let go of Luca’s hand.

“What’s going on?” she demanded. 

Luca’s dark brows knit together sorrowfully as he held onto her hand. “More than I’ve told you. Go with him.”

She saw the seriousness in his face, and let her hand slide from his. Together, she left with Federico, who set a swift pace ahead of them. When she looked back at Luca, he was speaking rapidly to Matteo, who had his hand inside his jacket. That was the last thing she saw as they rounded the corner back to the car. 


	8. À l'église

Nola found herself pressed close to Luca in the back of the car, not because it was a tight fit, but because he seemed intent on protecting her from something. His arm hung over the back of the seat, with his long coat almost enveloping her. Matteo sped away from the dance hall as the two of them spoke rapidly in Italian. 

“ _Shouldn’t she go home?”_

_“I don’t want her out of my sight.”_

Nola didn’t catch any of this. She only saw the sidelong glance Luca gave her as he continued to scan the road outside the window. 

_“Federico will go to her apartment. We’ll take her back when we’re sure no one’s following.”_

Then there was silence between them, with just the hum of the engine. Nola was burning with questions, but didn’t voice any of them. She merely waited for Luca to explain, which she felt sure he would. 

“This is a fucked up situation,” Luca finally said. Nola just nodded, staring ahead. The sight of Tommy Shelby watching her from the bar had struck her as deeply foreboding. After his baffling threats towards her, she had every reason to distrust him— but why was he threatening her? As her mind sped over the possibilities, it landed finally on Luca. The tall, rich man in her tea leaves. Her stomach turned darkly. 

“ _I think we’re clear,”_ said Matteo after a while. 

_“_ We’re taking you home,” Luca said, glancing around again. “You’ll be safe there.”

“I don’t feel safe,” Nola said, anger cutting through her voice. 

“Someone will stay with you,” he responded patiently. 

As Matteo pulled up to her apartment building, Nola saw that Federico’s car was already there. Matteo got out and went up to the window talk to him while Nola and Luca stayed in the back seat.

“Are you scared?” Luca asked.

“Yes, I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Would you be scared if I stayed with you?”

Nola paused. “I don’t know.”

“Let me come up with you. I’ll stay as long as you want. Or you can tell me to leave.”

“You don’t have to leave.”

With that, Luca got out of the car and came around to open her door. Matteo and Federico watched, smoking, by the other car. The street was silent; sleep enveloped the neighborhood at this hour. A few solitary lights illuminated the windows of her apartment building. With the thin night air prickling around her, Nola swung open the front door and entered with the shadowed figure of Luca Changretta following behind. 

All feelings of embarrassment at her modest living quarters disappeared with her present agitation. She showed Luca in unceremoniously, flipping on the kitchen light which served to illuminate most of the small flat. She threw her shawl over the back of the armchair and turned to look at Luca.

“We gotta talk.” 

Luca draped his coat over the back of the chair carefully. He then sat down, unbuttoning his suit jacket with a graceful gesture. Nola collapsed on the edge of her bed and Luca started to speak before she could say anything. 

“I’m gonna be straight with you, Nola. You’re in dangerous territory. Just by being in this room with me, your life is in danger. Did you know that?”

Nola smirked slightly. “I could tell by looking at you that you were trouble, Luca. But I got this far.”

“And this is it,” he said, leaning forward emphatically. There was an intense light in his eyes. “You have to decide if you’ll go any further. Because it don’t get easier with me.”

“First tell me what’s going on,” she said quietly, her eyes flickering away from his. Luca leaned back, smoothly placing a toothpick between his lips. 

“Not long ago, my brother Angel started seeing a woman closely acquainted with Tommy Shelby. Their relationship was considered unsuitable by the Shelby family. So much so that when my brother was on his way to pick up his laundry one evening, a Shelby brother attacked him with a razor. He cut his face,” Luca said, running a long finger along his grim face, “Beat him. And sent him to the hospital in incredible pain. He later died.”

Nola let out a long, disbelieving breath, staring at the floor between her feet. She shook her head, but Luca went on.

“My father was very reasonable with the Shelbys. Our families were friends long ago. My mother— my mother even taught the Shelby brothers their letters. It’s a special bond, teacher and student.” 

The sorrow on his face evolved quickly into anger as he continued. He emphasized his next words with his toothpick, leaning forward again so that Nola’s eyes flickered up to him.

“So. The Shelbys hadn’t had enough of my family. First my brother. Then my father and my mother? How much pain can one family inflict upon another? They wanted to take everyone from me.”

He held up one finger. 

“But not my mother. Not my mother.”

Shaking his head, he leaned back in his chair. 

“This is my family?” she said weakly.

Luca held out a hand as if making his point. “Yes and no. There’s no Shelby blood in you. Polly Gray may have been a Shelby, but she’s of another world. Just like you. Yet you keep getting dragged back into their world.”

“How can you trust me? How can you bear to be around me after what my family did to yours?”

Luca’s face softened. “Because you had no hand in this. And if Tommy Shelby can find any softness in his heart for you, then perhaps our families can have peace again.”

Luca turned his head, gazing out the window by her bed. When he spoke, his voice was lilting, confidential, sounding again like the Luca she had gotten to know. “I didn’t know you were related to them. Not when I saw your play, not when I met you for the first time. It didn’t matter. Now, however, it matters.”

There were tears welling in Nola’s eyes. She didn’t wipe them as they slowly slid down her cheek. She suddenly felt Luca’s hand on her face. His thumb brushed away the tears before they fell, and he cupped her face briefly in his hand. 

“I don’t know where you go from here,” he admitted. 

“To sleep,” she mumbled. 

“You want me here?”

She just nodded. He stood up.

“I’ll go speak with Matteo. Give you some privacy.”

She watched his back as he stepped out the door, pulling it shut gently behind him. Then she really cried. It was brief and hard, like a sudden rain shower, and when she forced herself to stop, she washed her face in the kitchen sink. She slid out of her new dress and into her nightgown, a short silk shift. She left the kitchen light on for Luca and crawled under the sheets, still reeling with overwhelming emotion.

She heard Luca come in quietly and lock the door behind him. He turned out the kitchen light and settled into the armchair near her bed. Neither of them said a word; the last utterance Nola heard from him before drifting off was a long, quiet sigh. 

* * *

 

The last thing Nola ever expected in her life was to roll over upon waking and see a man like Luca Changretta fast asleep in the armchair by her bed. His head tilted to one side, a strand of black hair falling across it, his lips parted softly as he breathed deeply in and out. She watched his hands, which were crossed over his chest, rise and fall, again tracing the rosary tattoo, the black hand, and the glittering gold and onyx rings on his long fingers. 

She rose quietly and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. She filled two cups and carried them over to her bed to find Luca already awake. He didn’t seem groggy at all. His bright eyes regarded her as she handed him a steaming mug. 

“Thank you,” Luca said. Nola sat down on the edge of her bed, and they were back in the same position as they had been last night. Luca sipped his coffee appreciatively and gave her a little nod of approval. 

“Thank you for staying,” Nola murmured.

“If it made you feel safer.”

“For now. How am I going to protect myself when you’re not around?”

Luca looked at her evenly. “I don’t know. How would you?”

“I don’t have a gun.”

He then frowned slightly, setting his mug on her bedside table. He lightly touched the lapels of his suit. “I don’t have a gun either. I have my men.”

“But I don’t even know how to use one.”

“Are you saying you want to learn to use a gun?”

“I don’t know. If you’re so dangerous to be around, I want to be able to defend myself.”

This stung Luca slightly, but he didn’t show it. “The thing with guns is that if you’re holding one, you have to be ready to kill. Really, truly ready.”

A moment of silence stretched between them. Nola certainly didn’t know what that feeling was like. She suspected that Luca did.

“Learn to use a knife,” he suggested, picking up his mug again.

Nola eyed him. “A knife?”

“You and I come from the city. Not everybody can afford a gun. But everybody and their mother has a knife. Especially their mother.”

“How would I defend myself against someone with a gun, then?”

“Guns are easy. It doesn’t take any skill to use one. A knife teaches you more than just killing. You get quiet, cautious, patient. These are good skills to have. Just ask any thief in New Orleans.”

Nola smirked slightly. “You’re right.”

“I’ll have Federico teach you.”

Nola pressed her lips to the rim of her mug. She had told Luca she was willing to be around him, even if he was dangerous. Now she had to take the necessary steps.

“And what about the Shelbys?”

“Talk to Polly. She’s your only ally in this situation. You need to see her before you see Tommy again.”

“He knows where I live. He came here.”

Luca’s eyes darkened slightly. “He what?”

“I suppose he thinks I’m your spy.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He said if I am who he thinks I am, we won’t know each other very long.”

“That’s a fucking threat.”

“I know.”

They both took a long sip of coffee, staring off. 

“That motherfucker,” Luca finally stated.

“That’s what I said.”

* * *

 

When Luca eventually departed, she peered out the window watching him go. Both Matteo and Federico were still parked out front. Probably kept watch in shifts. The front of her apartment looked like a fortress. After they drove off, she went to call Polly immediately.

“It’s Nola Gray,” she said when her aunt picked up.

“Dear Lord, girl. Do you know what you’ve gotten into?”

“Just a small inkling.”

“Tommy could’ve shot you dead at any moment.”

“So I’m told.”

“I won’t say anything more over the phone. Get yourself to All Saints church in Small Heath in-” She paused to check the time. “-say an hour. Can you do that?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Polly hung up unceremoniously. Nola sighed and her eyes fell on the armchair where Luca had fallen asleep. His coffee mug remained on the bedside table. She pondered it for a moment before taking it to the sink to wash it out.

* * *

 

Nola took a cab to the church at the appointed time. When she stepped inside, she felt the hush of the air around her, the stillness of the dark wooden pews, the glow of light through colorful stained glass. Polly sat alone facing the statue of the Virgin at the head of the church. Nola strode towards her with hands in her pockets and slid into the pew. 

The woman gave her a look filled with equal parts of concern, curiosity, and amusement. 

“Luca Changretta?” Polly questioned.

“You didn’t know?”

“I don’t see names. I see spirit. Thought this one seemed familiar.”

Polly thumbed a rosary in her left hand, keeping her intense gaze on Nola.

“I could tell you a few things about Luca. But you’re just as likely to find out for yourself.”

“When you saw him in my tea leaves, you liked him.”

“If he wasn’t trying to kill me, I would like him very much.”

Nola sat back in the pew. “Jesus Christ. I didn’t realize...”

“Of course you didn’t. You’re new to this. This is a war that started long ago. The Shelby and Changretta families are inexplicably tied. And now you’re here, somewhere in-between.” Polly’s eyes flickered with interest. “Your father didn’t have the second sight. But he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Perhaps you’re that way too.”

“It doesn’t seem like the best time for me to be here.”

“Who knows. Perhaps you have the power to turn the tides in your favor. The future isn’t set, you know.”

Nola gripped the back of the pew in front of them, deep in thought.

“What do I do about Tommy?”

“That’s the good news. You’ve got a meeting with Tommy tomorrow. Job interview. Shelby Company Limited is looking for an assistant accountant. Hiring internally.”

“That makes no damn sense,” Nola said bluntly.

Polly just smiled patiently and waited for her to go on.

“He thinks I’m a spy. That’s the best position for a spy to be in.”

“But you’re no spy. You’re family. Right?”

Polly then glanced at her pocket watch, clipped it shut and stood. She looked down at Nola once more.

“Oh, and your interview is at the race tomorrow afternoon.”

“What race?”

“The horse race. That’s our business, so you better see it firsthand. I hope you like horses.”

With that, she slid past Nola and paced up the aisle, the sound of her heels echoing in the hallowed halls until the door shut behind her. 

Nola sat alone, gazing at the pale statue of the Virgin Mary dressed in sky blue robes. She had long ago abandoned the religion she had been raised on. Yet as she sat in the church, the old feelings of mystery kindled distantly within her. She didn’t think she could believe in that god any longer. But as Polly had said, something had directed her to Birmingham, if only just an echo in her own blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter posted! Had a bit of a block and worked on some other upcoming stories in the meantime. Please enjoy and feel free to let me know how you're enjoying the story so far. Thanks for reading!


	9. À la course

She called Luca again that night after seeing Polly. It seemed like a necessary part of her day now, to hear his voice at least once. It calmed her down, grounded her in this strange new reality. 

“What do you think of Tommy’s offer?” she asked. “Why would he want me to work for him?”

“There’s no such thing as an assistant accountant in his business,” Luca said dismissively. “That’s just to keep you close to him. Keep your enemies close, keep a beautiful woman closer.”

Nola’s heart skipped a little. So he really considered her beautiful, she thought. 

“Are you worried?” he inquired. 

“A little,” she admitted. “I could use the money, though. If he really wants to hire me.”

Luca went silent. She feared that she had said something wrong. But when he spoke again, his voice betrayed nothing.

“We can fix you up for tomorrow. I can’t sent a man with you, but we can prepare you to defend yourself if anything goes wrong. I wouldn’t worry, though. Tommy’s just feeling you out, to see how you can be most useful to him.”

He said he’d send a car in the morning, and wished her goodnight. 

* * *

Luca’s idea of “fixing her up” was knife lessons. She found this out when Federico arrived at her apartment and shuttled her across Birmingham to an abandoned warehouse by some ominous-looking smokestacks. Luca was there already with Matteo. Dusty light filtered through the tall, tarnished windowpanes. It was strange being in that hushed space with the three Italian-Americans, all dressed alike in black suits and long overcoats, and she quickly dismissed the dark thoughts that her imagination conjured up. Luckily, these loyal men were all on her side.

Luca came up to her twirling a toothpick between his teeth. 

“Seems strange,” he said, reaching a hand into his coat pocket. “But consider this my first gift to you.”

He held a shining silver and black enamel switchblade in the palm of his hand. Nola didn’t take it at first, and Luca grinned.

“Scary, huh?”

She nodded. “Yeah. A bit.”

Luca flicked the blade out, testing it lightly on the pad of his index finger. 

“Well, let your fear end here.”

She took the handle of the knife and rubbed her thumb along the smooth enamel. 

“It’s a beautiful knife,” she admitted.

“Federico’s gonna show you how to use it. I have to run.” He checked his wristwatch, glanced from Nola to Federico and gave a little nod. Then he strode off side by side with Matteo, leaving her in that vast empty space with a knife in her hand and a man in a suit standing across from her.

Federico was stroking his clean-shaven chin in thought.

“Okay,” he finally said in his heavily accented voice as he strode towards her. “One or two things. Just in case.”

He held out his hand for the knife, and she handed it over.

“You’re holding it like a pencil.” He demonstrated the correct position of the hand, and Nola noted it diligently.

“By the way,” he said suddenly, dropping his hand, “I’m a big fan of your work.”

“Oh— thank you! Wait, what work?”

“Your play. I saw it.”

He held up the knife again, then shifted his feet into a firmer stance.

“Do what I do, okay?”

Nola obeyed, anchoring herself with poise. 

“Here’s an easy target.” Federico pointed right at his solar plexus, where his rib cage ended. “Unbelievable pain. You won’t have any more problems.”

He tested the knife with a quick jab into midair.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You know, I saw plays in _Napoli_ not half as good as yours.”

“Really? I’ve never been to Naples.”

He handed her the knife. “So. Where else you going to aim?”

“For the throat?”

“Balls.”

Nola gave a start.

“Seriously. Don’t bother with anywhere else.”

She shuddered, looking at the knife in her hands. “Got it.”

Federico folded his arms. “Your plays might do well in Italy. I understand the poetry you’re going for.”

“You think so?”

Federico nodded. He tapped his fingers along his arm. “I don’t think anything will happen at the races today. But you come back for more lessons. I’ll really teach you.”

He seemed to want to say something else as Nola folded the knife and slid it into her pocket. She waited patiently for it to come out. 

“I always wanted to write,” he said. 

“Really?” she said delightedly. “Then you should write!”

“Ahh,” he mumbled dismissively, tossing his hand. 

“No, you really should.”

“There’s no time, really.”

“You can always find time. After every lesson you can write something. Then show it to me next time.”

“In English?”

“Whatever you want. Deal?”

She held out her hand, and Federico took it with an embarrassed smile. “Don’t tell Luca.” He retracted slightly. “Okay, I’ll tell him.”

She nodded, smiling to herself. After they wrapped up the lesson, Federico drove her back to her apartment where she would wait for Tommy Shelby.

He leaned out the window before he drove off. “Remember— in the balls,” he called.

Nola just laughed as he waved out the window and sped off down the street. She then went inside to get ready for the races. 

* * *

Nola gazed calculatingly at her wardrobe. What was her cousin expecting from her? She decided against a suit, feeling that it was too formal for the occasion. And a dress might be too casual. In the end she chose a maroon cardigan with olive green pants, a yellow silk scarf around her neck with her brown leather boots and gloves. Just the right balance between casual and professional.

She held the knife from Luca in the palm of her hand, then slid it carefully into her boot. She had no idea if Tommy would have her searched, but at least she could make excuses for the knife. A gun was harder to explain. 

There was a loud rap at the door which startled her. She hurried to answer it, finding Tommy Shelby there in his best attire, his cap almost hiding his bright eyes. 

“Ready?” he said brusquely. 

“I’m ready.”

“Come on then. We’ll talk in the car.”

But they didn’t talk immediately. The driver started off down the road while Tommy lit a cigarette beside her. This time he offered her one, and she refused. 

“So you’ve got a thing for Luca Changretta,” Tommy said.

“So do you.”

Tommy shot her a wordless look. “Right. Different kind of thing.”

“I don’t feel like I have to make excuses for myself. But I’m not a spy. I didn’t know who Luca really was. But he told me everything.”

“Good. So you know we’ve all been served the Black Hand and he’ll kill us the first chance he gets.”

“Who’s ‘us?’”

“Me, Polly, Michael, and Arthur. He’s already taken one of my brothers.”

A hush fell over the car. This was the first Nola had heard of Luca being responsible for a death in her own family. Her stomach turned uncomfortably.

“Which brother?” she asked softly.

“John Shelby. Your own cousin.” Tommy drew thoughtfully on his cigarette before he continued. “I won’t judge you for parading around with a handsome, wealthy man. God knows I’ve had my share of frivolous women. Oh, it’s very enticing at first. But it gets old fast.”

“We haven’t fucked.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Well well.”

“Just so you know. We’re friends.”

Tommy sighed, and a slow stream of smoke escaped his nostrils. “Ever been to the races, Nola?”

“Never in my life.”

“I wanted you to see what it’s about. If you’re going to work for us, you need to know these things.”

“I haven’t said anything about working for you yet.”

Tommy then leveled his oceanic gaze at her. “Fair enough. You can give me your answer at the end of the day. But if you make the wrong choice, I won’t be taking you back home.”

They had arrived at the track. Nola’s heart was pounding and she barely heard Tommy when he leaned forward to speak to the driver. Her eyes darted over the crowds outside the window. Tommy slid out the door and she wondered how she could possibly escape. 

“Come on, cousin,” Tommy said as he opened the door, eyes distant, cigarette smoldering between his lips. 

Having no choice, Nola stepped out of the car, side by side with a man who struck fear into her heart. She held steady as they wove through the crowds, while Tommy’s eyes were fixed on some far horizon. 

There was much finery and wealth on display amongst the race-goers, but none of it enticed her. The smell of earth baking on the hot track and the sweat of horses permeated the air. Tommy’s paces were swift. They ascended the steps to a private booth which had been reserved for him. They sat side by side, strangely isolated amongst the crowd that filled the stands. 

“Michael needs some assistance at the office,” Tommy finally said. “I want to bring you on as his assistant. You’ll be paid, of course.” 

Nola just nodded, watching the track. The horses and jockeys were beginning to come onto the field. The jockeys wore brightly colored shirts and helmets, eyes obscured by thick goggles. The horses pranced and started, full of anxious energy. They were strong, sleek beasts of terrifying power. In that moment Nola wanted more than anything to take off on the back of one of those beasts, riding away so hard and fast that no one could ever trail her. 

“I don’t know a god damn thing about accounting,” she said bluntly. 

A brief smile flickered on Tommy’s lips. “Well. You’ll be in good company with the rest of us.” 

The starting gun gleamed silver in the sun. The jockeys all took their positions, riding high on their steeds. 

“What do you really want from me?” Nola said without meeting his eyes.

“Since you’re not currently a spy, might as well put you to work as one. You’ll be our spy.”

The gun went off. She jumped involuntarily. The horses burst forth in a cloud of dust, jockeys desperately whipping their hides. She could see the whites of their eyes, the gleam of sweat on their dark, streaking forms. Her eyes traced the wide circle around the track. Horses eased forward then fell back. People around her started to stand up and scream. Men slung their hats around in the air, and women shrieked with excitement. 

Tommy just sat back, coolly watching. Then it occurred to Nola that he probably already knew how this race would end. 

The winning horse crossed the line. There was a mixture of dejection and jubilation from the audience. Some people were already starting to leave, but Tommy remained seated. 

“Just remember who you’re on the verge of falling in love with,” he warned. Nola stared wordlessly at the track with her fingers laced in her lap. She felt Tommy glance over at her. 

“How about that cigarette?” he asked, fingers already digging in his breast pocket. 

* * *

When Nola slid into the back seat again, she knew the choice before her. It was almost as if death rode beside her, close as it was. Tommy just gazed out the window waiting for her to speak. The miles flew by as they drew nearer to Birmingham. Nola let them run on. She wanted to see how close she could get. Perhaps Tommy would pull out his gun to frighten her into an answer. Perhaps they would just keep driving, and he wouldn’t give her another chance to decide.

She felt the hidden knife pressed against her heel, but she knew she wouldn’t reach for it. That would be just another way of sealing her fate. 

The neighborhoods began to look familiar. They were close now. She wondered how much time Tommy would give her. She had to give in soon. But they were pulling up to her apartment now and she still hadn’t said anything. The car came to a stop. 

“Have you thought about your answer?” Tommy said.

_Are you kidding me?_ she wanted to say. What else would she be thinking about?

“I’ll fucking do it.”

With that, Tommy got out of the car and came around to open her door. She slid out slowly, afraid her legs would give out beneath her. Tommy reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a card. 

“We’ll see you at work, then. Tomorrow morning, nine sharp.” 

Nola took the card from him. She was still staring at it when the car carrying Tommy Shelby rumbled away. 


End file.
